


Memo to the Count

by g0bliin



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood and Violence, F/M, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Ferdinand von Aegir/Dorothea Arnault, Murder, Protective Hubert von Vestra, Revenge, count varley gets what he fucking deserves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:33:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23596906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/g0bliin/pseuds/g0bliin
Summary: "Hey, your old man should knowIf you see a shadowThere's something there"______________________________________________alternatively, Hubert does something he should have done a long time ago.
Relationships: Bernadetta von Varley/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 10
Kudos: 67





	Memo to the Count

**Author's Note:**

  * For [owlyuri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlyuri/gifts).



> This fanfic is for owlyuri, or @chickenbabby on twitter. It is based on artwork she did for Hubert/Bernadetta, and pretty much inspired the creation of this fic. 
> 
> Last August, she made wonderful fanart for my Merciebert fic, and I wanted to write this for her as a thank you. It still shocks me that someone drew art for one of my fics. Please go follow her on twitter! She's an amazing artist. 
> 
> The art: https://twitter.com/chickenbabby/status/1233773340625719296?s=20

Hubert von Vestra learned long ago that, at his very core, he was a simple man.

It was no surprise, then, that his personal desires reflected this simplicity, far different as they were from the greed that plagued society. He did not ask for much, and perhaps from this selflessness, he was granted each of his wishes accordingly.

All he wanted for himself and his wife, Bernadetta, was to have a nice, quiet life in the countryside.

Their manor-cottage was just far enough from the boundaries of Enbarr for his wife to feel a comfortable distance away from her imposing family. It was also close enough for Hubert, should he have to attend to business in the capitol on short notice.

Traveling to Enbarr was a mere few hours on horseback. Even fewer on carriage. He could leave in the morning and be back home right as dinner got finished.

Such a journey was about to be made today. And it was a _dreadful_ inconvenience, as he told Bernadetta the prior evening.

“I did my best to plead with Edelgard to postpone, but she was insistent upon my appearance in court tomorrow morning.”

“I see…” A hint of disappointment lingered in her few words.

He reached his hand across the table to gently grasp hers. “Do not fret too much, my dear. I’ll be sure to be back in time to celebrate our first anniversary. Her Majesty would not want to keep me for more than a day.”

She smiled softly, nodding her head gingerly in response.

“It gives me the opportunity to pick up your gift.”

“M-my gift?!” Her eyes widened. “Hubert! I told you not to get me anything! We both agreed to not get gifts for each other.”

“Yet you’ve been huddled away in the gardens, embroidering shirts that are far too large for any orphaned child to wear.”

Bernadetta let out an embarrassed squeak, too flustered to retort her husband now that she had been caught red-handed.

“At least allow me to enjoy the notion of showering my wife with material items,” he smirked, lifting her hand up to kiss her fingertips, “when she has so often pleased me.”

She turned her face away, covering her smile with her other hand. Her words were mumbled, but he swore he heard her say, “I’m not that hungry anymore.”

With the graceful rise of her body from the dining chair, it was sufficient to state that dinner was finished when the two made their way to their bedroom.

Before dawn rose, Hubert left his little, dozing wife curled up in bed with a kiss on her forehead. He dressed in black attire that was too casual for a court summoning, carrying only a simple briefcase that had everything he would need for Enbarr.

If the carriage hadn’t been in need of repair, he could have allowed himself to spend a few more moments with Bernadetta, indulging in the scent of wild-flowers that had clung to her hair since the pair moved to the country. Two of the wheels had just recently gone under, suddenly collapsing into scraps of wood.

A truly dreadful inconvenience.

He walked into the stables, hanging his briefcase on the wall as he went to saddle up his new mare. There was no need to name the horse, since he would only have it briefly. The mare was of the common breed; as her coat was a flat, dull brown, she was unlikely to stand out or be particularly remarkable in any fashion.

Once he finished saddling up the horse, the sun was barely peeking above the horizon. It was at the point where the sky was still a prominent steely-blue, teetering on the edge of night and day. The sky would only be in that stage for a scant few moments before it would burst in a bouquet of marigold, lavender, and scarlet sage.

Bernadetta had told him that once, and her description stuck in his mind. It was rather strange to him for someone to describe the sky in such a way. Her speech at times more than toed the line of awkwardness, but it only added to her charm in Hubert’s opinion.

She had said it the first night they had moved into their cottage. Despite the fact that they both were used to the odd sounds of nature, they could not sleep a wink. Huddling together for warmth, they watched the stars twinkle until they faded away, the rays of the sun obscuring those infinitesimal sparkles. That night sky would be his entertainment on the road as he ruminated on other memories of them together. 

Hubert went back to where he had hung his suitcase, attaching it to a hook on the saddle before leading the mare outside. He made one final check to ensure the stables were locked, then mounted up. With a click of his tongue and a flick of the wrists, they were finally off towards Enbarr at a trot.

A thought appeared in his head just as he left the bounds of his homestead.

_It would have been far easier to use teleportation magic to get to the capitol_.

Hubert half-chuckled at the thought.

He was a simple man, and simple men often use simple means in order to achieve their goals. The journey would allow him plenty of time to devise the final details of his business at the capitol.

Simply murdering Count Varley was sound enough, but one can never be too ambitious when planning the perfect kill.

* * *

Hubert arrived in Enbarr just as the sun began to beat against his cloak. Many would think he was foolish to don black clothing in the middle of the summer, but many would not understand.

A drop of sweat rolled down his forehead as he approached the drawbridge at the gates of Enbarr, his senses already overwhelmed by the sounds of the nearby marketplace district. As he crossed the bridge, he pulled his hood over his face. Too many risks were associated with his face being recognizable by the public. It wasn’t easy being the right hand man of the Emperor.

He lowered his head, ignoring the lures and jeers of merchants hawking the latest deals on their products. The mare waltzed along the cobblestone path, her horseshoes clacking against the rock as an experienced show horse would. He veered her to the left side of the crowded streets in order to avoid trampling the common folk.

It would have been much better for him and the horse to have arrived at Enbarr at night, when the marketplace was closed, but his plan did not allow for that privilege. Every minute counted in regard to his meticulous plans. Hubert’s destination was not terribly far, though the crowd bustling about was far larger than he anticipated.

He had discovered a meager little tavern while poring over maps of the capitol, analyzing every street corner and business until his head pounded with all the different, idiotic names. Dubbing itself the ‘Old Crow’, the tavern once proudly proclaimed to have “the finest meals and softest beds in town.” If one had extra gold, they were encouraged to have one of the fair barmaids join them in their bedroom for a night.

Conveniently, the ‘Old Crow’ was located not far from a bath house frequented by nobles of the Empire.

With careful guidance and a steady pace, Hubert eventually managed to make it to the tavern in one piece. A sign was nailed to the front of the door, with the sentence painted “Under New Management. Closed until Further Notice.”

Climbing down from the horse, he tied her to the post, grabbing his suitcase from the saddle. He walked towards the door and opened it without a key, closing it behind him. The doorknob rattled, locking him in.

Hubert was not one for melodrama.

Buying out an entire business to have a place to exact his justice was beyond his humbleness. Stalking Count Varley through the shadows and breaking his neck in an alleyway would have satisfied him just fine.

If he believed in fate, he would have blamed that for his reasoning behind the purchase. Coincidentally, he did need an area of the capitol to host spies of the Empire. The tavern just so happened to be right in the heart of the marketplace, with travelers from all corners of Fódlan walking by every day.

He could not pass up such a _fine_ deal.

At his feet, he was met with various runes that entwined another in a circle, drawn with chalk so it would be swept away by hand once it was no longer needed. He stood for a moment to survey the emptiness of the tavern. Specks of dust fluttered in the tiny rays of sunlight that streaked through the windows; the air stood still, a tad humid for his liking. Thick, white linens were draped across the bar and wooden furniture, which had been pushed to the side, leaving substantial open space on the main floor. Upstairs would be the exact same - except for all but one of the rooms being locked shut.

It almost seemed as though the old tavern knew of his true intentions, and it displayed this knowledge by allowing itself to match his brooding nature. It had draped itself in a sheet of grey, as if it was protecting itself from his hand.

As if it knew it had been warped by his magic.

Nevertheless, outside the tavern, the markets seemed to be as lively and normal as usual. The ‘Old Crow’ was just hidden away from the main streets, tucked in an alleyway, faded from common knowledge and memory.

Stepping over the runes, the wooden floor under his boots groaned. The little hairs on his neck pricked up, and Hubert was not able to hold in a scoff.

He had done plenty of sinister deeds on the battlefield, killing many to achieve this life of comfort. What was the difference between killing them and killing an abusive father that deserved it?

He scoffed again, sounding closer to a laugh. There was no time to dwell on his past actions. All Hubert could now do in the present was to atone for his sins in the only way he knew to be sufficient.

Blood.

Running his hand through the sweat-tinged mop of his hair, he was quick to go to work. He unclasped his cloak and placed it on the bar, right by his suitcase.

Making use of the fabrics, he laid them out gracefully on the floor in layers, making use of every outstretched stitch. When he had captured the count, he would later put a thin veil of magic over the sheets so the blood would not stain into the wood. That way he would have a surplus in case things got out of hand.

But they never did for Hubert. The odds were always in his favor.

He grabbed one of the wooden chairs and placed it in the center of the tavern’s foyer. Taking a step back, he surveyed his work, arching an eyebrow. It would have to do for now.

A chair made of heavier material would be better suited to withstand what he was going to do to the Count, but perhaps it would be fun to make use of broken wood. It didn’t matter anyway. Count Varley was going to die, but his death had to have a purpose.

Hubert noted this to himself when he first was struck with the idea. There was a reason for the theatrics. His actions had to physically express his disdain for this vile creature.

He had known of Varley throughout the years, though he never formally met the Count until much later, in adulthood. Almost instantly thereafter, Hubert’s hatred for him budded. His involvement in usurping the throne and sending Edelgard away to Faerghus placed it within him. It grew larger when Bernadetta revealed to him the horrors of her childhood.

But the decision to kill him, the critical moment where he simply _had to_ send this man six feet under, was after his wedding.

* * *

Hubert and Bernadetta had been surrounded by friends and family all throughout the day. The newlyweds were barely ever left alone throughout the celebration. He was drunk on love and a strange happiness that he once believed could not break down a grave and stern man like himself.

The sunsets of the Garland Moon had just begun to linger longer in the twilight, the sky burning with intense orange that left the earth below covered in long, gangly shadows. Fireflies led the couple’s first dance, their tiny lanterns shining light that held more power than the paper ones that hung above their heads.

Perhaps that was when his silly notions of “simplicity” blossomed.

Never before had he thought he would veer headfirst into foolish ideas of love and marriage. Those were not obtainable for men like him. No matter how much Hubert was molded to be the aide of the Emperor, humanity bled through to him. The importance of his role would never waver, but now he had far more to consider.

The twilight had since faded to pure, dark night. Beads of stars scattered across the night sky like his thoughts. He had found himself alone outside, saying farewell to his guests. Bernadetta decided she had had enough of the festivities and needed a few minutes of solitude.

One was proving to be rather difficult. Ferdinand von Aegir kept wrapping an arm around his shoulder no matter how many times he pried it off of him, reeking of wine and singing praises in a high falsetto that Dorethea would be proud of.

“Bernie’s such a great gal. You totally deserve her, Hubert!” he slurred, half hugging Hubert. “I’ve ne’er seen you smile so much.”

“Ferdie! We really ought to be going now,” Dorethea called from the open carriage, leaning forward to outstretch her hand towards her husband. He took it and continued to stand, his other arm still latched onto Hubert’s shoulder.

“We should have another wedding! Weddings are so much fun. Remember the professor’s and Edelgard’s? How they wore matching gowns?” His lip quivered, eyes watering up. “It was so beautiful.”

“ _Ferdinand von Aegir_ , get into the carriage right now before I divorce you on the spot!”

“Noooo! You can’t do that!”

“Fine, I won’t,” she teased. “Once you get into the carriage, you can rest your head on my lap, and I can stroke your hair...” Her tone shifted to mollify the poor Ferdinand, a soft smile on her lips.

He nodded, sniffling like a child as he finally let go of his friend and went into the arms of his wife. Dorothea mouthed a “Congratulations” to Hubert, shutting the carriage door. Within moments they were off, leaving a wisp of dust scarcely noticeable in the dark. He watched the carriage fade into the horizon, and was about to head inside to check on Bernadetta, when another carriage approached, the door opening for him wordlessly.

One glimpse at the intricate patterns carved onto the side and he knew that it belonged to Count Varley. Cautiously, he stepped into the carriage, closing the door behind him and sat across from the Count.

Ambrose Varley was more “bullfrog” than “man.”

From the stout, stubby body and limbs, to the bulging, ash-colored eyes that were spread too far apart, a mouth permanently pulled into a disgruntled frown, and muddy hair that appeared smoothed back by his own grease, Count Varley was the epitome of the disgusting greed the older nobles were born with; a trait that would, hopefully soon, be bred out by the next generation.

Precious jewels and gold-covered him from his neck to the buckle of his shoes. Their gaudiness glimmered in the faint light of the lantern hanging in the carriage. If one peered closer, they would notice the grime and muck that had settled into the crevices.

Every extravagant boast of his wealth was covered in filth and scum, reeking in such a manner that no perfume could ever disguise. It wafted in the carriage, nearly suffocating the newlywed.

“Do not worry. Our conversation will be short,” the Count croaked at him, attempting to intimidate his new son-in-law as befitting the role of the protective father. “I will not keep you far from your bride.”

Hubert did not respond. He curtly nodded his head, folding his hands neatly into his lap as his fox eyes stared into the Count’s.

There was a pause before Count Varley spoke again. He cleared his throat, pulling out a silken handkerchief to hack a cough into. “I was surprised that my daughter managed to marry this young. I had expected the events of the war would have only caused her to stay shut up in her room and become an old maid. Useless indeed,” he coughed again. “Though you have no Crest, being an advisor to the Emperor is almost as great of a resume.”

“I am quite pleased to hear of your approval,” he replied coolly. Crest or not, he would still be able to reach for the Count’s neck and strangle the life from his eyes.

“Only a man can fill that position. Hardly anyone knows what’s going on in that she-devil’s mind these days. I’m still on house arrest thanks to that damnable woman!”

“Edelgard was at least courteous enough to allow you to attend our wedding. I will try to see if I can speed up the process for probation, but there are matters that have more importance than petty court hearings.”

All the other Counts that were placed under house arrest were either killed or freed under different circumstances. Count Varley was purposely made the last by Hubert’s own hand, but he wasn’t about to start giving that frog any special privileges.

Varley leaned back on the velvet cushioning. He glanced out the window, huffing and hacking into his handkerchief, avoiding the annoying glare Hubert was sending him. The coughing was so hard that his eyes almost popped out of their sockets, his face flushing a deep red.

“Was that all that you wanted to discuss with me, Count Varley?” His feeble attempt at displaying authority would not dissuade Hubert from exerting his own pressure.

“Yes - _er_ , no! Excuse me, but I have more.”

He crossed his arms with a sigh, his contempt for this man growing. Still, he held in his temper. It was better to save that anger for court, when he would be able to pull strings from the shadows to torture the Count.

“Bernadetta is… a _strange_ girl,” Count Varley began. “Well, _all_ women aren’t quite right in the head compared to men, of course, so they need a certain... guidance.”

He raised an eyebrow. Fine, he’d take the bait. “What do you mean by _guidance_?”

“As a child, Bernadetta was unruly. Unfit to be anything more than a street urchin. Her behavior was getting out of hand, and I took measures for her own good. At the rate she was heading, she would never have been a suitable bride. The Countess and I would have been stuck with a failure on our hands. I admit: I was not a perfect father. But I had a duty to instill discipline in my children. I had to teach them what is right and what is wrong.”

Hubert’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Ahh, yes. You’re speaking of that despicable chair.”

The Count was taken aback. “She told you about the chair?”

“I did not marry a complete stranger, Count Varley. She decided to share your mistreatment years ago. Having your own father chain you to a chair for hours at a time is not easily forgotten by a daughter.”

“But it worked! Didn’t it? Is she not the most _perfect_ wife you could ask for? Quiet, soft-spoken, submissive. She won’t meddle in your affairs or dare to speak her opinion. Your word is the law of the household. I made her obedient, Count Vestra. I _tamed_ the animal that corrupts the gentle nature of women if one does not beat it out of them.”

He finished his spiel with yet another hacking, wet cough.

Those words left a bitter taste in Hubert’s mouth. He thought himself to be evil, but not to this degree. The Count’s nonchalant admittance of his abuse, and trying to _justify_ his lame excuses...

The audacity of this man. The sheer gall of this pathetic lump of blobbiness injected so much fear into Bernadetta, convincing her to be afraid of everything.

“You may not agree with my methods. They can seem brutal, but I assure you, they do work, given steady hands. I can tell you have them. Descendants of the Varley bloodline _must_ have them. We are, after all, known for our unwavering sense of justice - you surely know of this through our dealings with both the Church and the Ministry of the Interior.”

Thousands of potential responses danced in Hubert’s mind. He had the ability to decide what he wanted to say to the Count. Shall it be witty? Brash anger, teeth pulled back, and testosterone-ridden? Hubert was not one to believe in fairness; still, even he followed his own guidelines.

He chose to remain silent. The twisted demons of his birthright whispered fantasies of violence he fully intended to act upon. At a later time.

He stared back at the Count for a moment before banging his hand on the roof of the carriage. He had to restrain himself from punching the wall instead. “Turn back,” he ordered the driver in a hiss.

They remained silent until the carriage arrived back at the cottage. All Hubert wanted to do was rush into the cottage, find his wife, and hold her close to his chest. This new knowledge of Count Varley birthed an urge for him to protect Bernadetta, to steal her away from the Empire. To anywhere her father had not yet blighted with his presence.

The carriage halted, the sky now pitch black. The paper lanterns used for the outdoor party now hung around the door, welcoming Hubert back home. He once again restrained his eagerness to leave the company of the Count. Opening the carriage door, Hubert swiftly stepped out before his host had the chance to speak further.

Count Varley’s beady frog-eyes loomed over him. Despite the light reflecting in his irises, they did not possess the spark of life. They were dead, reminding Hubert of a bloated corpse found in a river.

“Count Vestra, remember what I said. If she acts up, just sit her down awhile.”

He swallowed his pride to play the role of diligent son-in-law a moment longer. The displeasure would later be worth it. “I’ll remember everything you told me tonight, Count Varley.”

* * *

The street lights slowly lit the city thanks to the lantern keepers. Holding long torches, they would light them one by one, traveling across the city until all of Enbarr shone.

All it meant for Hubert was that the time had come.

Time to fulfill the purpose of his journey, to serve up revenge after waiting so patiently. After calculating minutiae late into the night, after forcing himself to believe that _this_ way would be more satisfactory. It would at last settle the darkness he mulled over for far too long.

He stood by the bar, watching each of the street lights come alive. The fireflies would be coming back soon if they were not already drifting through the grass of the sandhills at home.

They were late this Garland Moon.

Opening his briefcase, he began to prepare for a most sanguine evening.

The inside of the top shell of the briefcase was lined with rows of small glass vials, each filled with various poisons and potions, organized on a scale of deadliness. No poisons would be used tonight. Only the sedatives would be necessary.

Neatly tucked into one of the pockets was an embroidered Brugmansia - an “angel’s trumpet.” The ends of the leaves were worn with age, and a mysterious dark stain blotted one of the tiny white flowers, but it still held the same brilliance of craft as the day he received it. It was a peculiar gift at the time. The flower is known to be extremely poisonous, even a hallucinogen if wielded in the right hands.

He didn’t know why she chose that particular flower. She could have embroidered any other type that was symbolic for friendship, or love, but it was _that_ one.

Hubert found himself stroking the embroidered flower, as if caressing Bernadetta’s cheek.

Thoughts of hesitation threatened to creep up, but he managed to shake them. There was no use in turning back now. He selected a glass bottle with a greenish tint, the label pasted on it scrawled in a foreign language. It was a new sedative he had come across on the black market.

“Gossamer” was what the merchants called it on the streets. A cocktail of man-made chemicals and herbs, it was an oddity that Fódlan had not seen before. Originally intended to be tested further by Empire mages, Hubert decided that Count Varley would be a fine candidate for experimentation.

Carefully, he placed it under his shirt, tucking it in a pocket that had been sewn in on the underside of the garment. He grabbed a pair of thin, leather black gloves, sliding them onto his hands before grabbing a scrap of fabric to stuff in his pants pocket.

Now it was a matter of waiting.

He documented the patterns of Count Varley. It had not been long since Edelgard released him from house arrest for good behavior, yet she still asked Hubert to monitor him.

“I don’t trust him” was her reasoning. He knew that the Emperor harbored contempt for all of the old nobles, but hearing her state that after bestowing peace upon Fódlan was strange.

Count Varley would arrive at the bathhouse in his gaudy carriage and order the driver to leave him be. The driver would take off, and the Count would enter the bath house, doing things with the housekeepers Hubert didn’t care to know about. He’d leave after a couple of hours or so, the carriage waiting outside for but a minute before the Count left the establishment.

It was only a matter of when the Count would arrive. He should have been at the bathhouse by now.

He found himself pacing around the tavern to pass the time, flexing and relaxing his fists. Every noise from outside made him rush to the windows like an impatient child, only to meet with increasing bitterness. When would that damnable Count arrive?

He was not the kind to suffer from anxieties. Anxiety was dangerous in these situations.

As was overthinking.

The adrenaline was already beginning to course through his veins. Hubert surpassed readiness, eager to slaughter the man without a drop of remorse. It almost seemed like a chore he was anxious to get over with.

Another pack of horses trotted their way through the street, not drawing his attention. He couldn’t be bothered with checking at this moment, knowing he would receive the same answer as he had been given every other time.

The horses stopped, and what made Hubert regret his choice was the familiar hacking of a certain man’s cough.

_Count Varley_.

Stumbling to the windows, he peered out through a tiny gap in the curtain.

There he was, standing all alone like a lost child out on the streets. The carriage was preparing to pull away as the Count seemed to be chatting with the driver. Hubert bristled, finding that his mouth had gone dry, veering on the edge of anticipation. He dared not to blink, to risk that the Count would vanish during that time.

“Wait, _what?_ ” Hubert said out loud.

His worst fear had come true.

Instead of going through the front entrance, the Count began to head down the alleyway between the bathhouse and another building. This was not supposed to happen. His spies had reported to him that the Count goes into the bathhouse for a couple hours, and leaves.

Damn it all.

Spurred into nervous action, Hubert found himself throwing open the tavern door and slinking his way across the street, then down the alleyway. Count Varley was not going to elude him that easily.

The outside air had grown crisp since this afternoon, swelling with humidity. The hanging clouds above seemed to be debating whether or not to downpour on the people below. A drop of sweat ran down his forehead, his body pressed against the wooden boards of the bathhouse, concealing himself in the shadows.

The Count was not far ahead. In fact, Hubert should have slowed his pace. If he took a step closer, he might be heard. Once again, he was on Count Varley like a hawk, sucking in his breath, back to anticipating his next move. Perhaps this night was not all lost. There was great risk in dragging the Count from the alleyway and across the street to the tavern, exposing himself to other night owls.

Concealing magic was another option. He would need to replenish his magic, but he did prepare a contingency for a scenario where that would happen.

Yes, yes. He’d do that as soon as he got the chance.

The sound of a zipper perked his ears. He dove out of his thoughts and came back to the alleyway. Count Varley had stopped near the end of the alley - a dead end. Shadows made it difficult to determine what exactly he was doing, but he seemed to be fidgeting with his trousers.

_Is he actually going to_ … _out here_ -?

Hubert was answered by a very familiar sound, and it dawned upon him. It struck him deep in his half rotten heart.

He was acting like a fool. All this tension built up to killing him, squandering precious time in stalking this creature. If he decided to go through with all of this, going through each step of the plan he so carefully crafted for months, spending even more time torturing the man and being forced to listen to his blubbering pleas for mercy and forgiveness... It would never satisfy him. Hubert sought out revenge, but not this lavishly. Though his hands craved to see the Count suffer, it would be too opulent for him.

Count Varley did not need a protracted death. The only thing he deserved, if even that, was to see the face of his killer as the life drained from his own.

Hubert leapt forward, nearly letting out a growl as his hands gripped the Count’s neck. A deep rage bloomed from within, the churning venom growing into vehemence in his eyes. It settled in his gut, washing away all the anxiety that had accumulated throughout the day.

Now _this_ was his element.

Fuck the torturing.

Fuck all the blood spatter he would have to deal with, magic and cravings be damned.

And fuck Count Varley for convincing him that he should have died in the tavern. No, he deserved to die out here in the wet, right next to his piss. What could be a more humiliating death than that?

A simple death from a simple man.

Hubert dug his nails into the flesh of the Count’s neck, thumbs pressing down on his windpipe, his teeth grinding together in frustration. A manic energy had possessed his mind. The Count kept opening and closing his mouth like a pathetic fish that almost made him laugh, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. One of his hands neared Hubert’s neck, moving in a way that implied Varley was going to cup his cheek.

There was nothing he could do to save his own life at this point.

It was the end.

It took too long for Hubert’s liking for the Count to finally collapse at his feet, spectacular as a sack of vegetables. He did not double check to see if he was really dead; he already knew. All bodies fell in the same manner after strangulation.

Out of old habit, his foot still nudged the body, searching for any kind of reaction. No response. He did not budge, nor did he make any sort of guttural moan.

For good measure, he gave the count’s face a swift kick. Then two more to make it a rounded three.

Exhaustion began to claw at him, sinking its talons in. He crouched on the ground, resting a hand on the alley wall. All Hubert wanted to do at this point was make the journey back home, crawl back into bed with his wife, and bask in the scent of wildflowers. The memory felt as though it was slipping away from him.

However, he had a body and a building to deal with. The building was able to be left alone; the body could not, despite how tempting it was to leave it rotting away in muck.

If he was going to salvage any remnant of his plans, then perhaps it would be best to burn them both down. Especially since it was about to rain at any second. He wasn’t sure if it was his overheated body, or the thickening, muggy air surrounding him in the alley, but he needed to do something soon.

* * *

Daylight caught up to Hubert by the time he reached his home. He knew it was the next morning, yet an unease that he still lingered back in Enbarr set in, unsure whether the events of yesterday had truly transpired. Time blurred into an endless purgatory, the hours ticking away as he journeyed.

The sight of something familiar almost had his heart singing out of joy. Pausing, he breathed a sigh of relief, halting the mare. He did his best to clean off the ash from his face and muck from his body with magic, ensuring nothing traceable was on his body when he left Enbarr, but this night would still cling to him.

The fire would have died out by now. It was almost miraculous that it did not rain as it burned, and on his journey back. Though that was not going to last much longer. The moment he stepped off of the horse, little droplets stained the dirt path, starting small, then splotching the ground in a layer of moisture. Soon enough, the entire path would be nothing but a trail of mud.

Hubert lowered his hood, lifting his head towards the sky. Let the rain wash it all away; the good sins and dirt.

“Hubert!”

He blinked, returning his gaze to earth just in time to see a running Bernadetta coming towards him, wearing nothing but her nightgown and a shawl haphazardly thrown around her shoulders. She dove into his arms, embracing him tightly. Rain dampened their bodies, but they did not move. He was unwilling to move. Hubert shielded his wife with part of his cloak, wrapping her in the black fabric.

“Happy Anniversary,” she whispered with her smile. Her wonderful, lovely little smile.

“Happy Anniversary,” he whispered back, stroking the top of her head. “Let us get out of this rain and celebrate it, hm? I don’t want your gift to get damaged.”

Her eyes lit up in a sparkle, reminding him of the fireflies a year ago. Hubert would relish in them for now, until the news of her father’s death broke. There would be a letter this week from her mother, revealing how his remains were found in a burned-down tavern. Her reaction to his death would be unpredictable, but he did not want to dwell on the somberness.

For now, he would be a man with his wife, spending the rest of their lives together.

Just a simple man with a simple wish. That was all Hubert was, after all.


End file.
